


An Open Door of Opportunity

by i_am_made_of_memoriies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist!Sasha, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/F, M/M, Spoilers for Season 4, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Timey-Wimey, can you tell how hard I vibe with the beholding, canon atypical comfort, canon typical worms, kicking Jonah Magnus's ass is a lifestyle, no beta we die like tim, post MAG 160, spoilers for season 5 if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_made_of_memoriies/pseuds/i_am_made_of_memoriies
Summary: “I will give you a choice, Martin,” Helen offered, cocking her head to one side. Her undulating off-brown hair fell with her head just a second too late. “You may return to the past and try your hardest to prevent Jonah from getting his way alone, or you may bring the Archivist. What do you pick?”Helen offers Martin a chance to go back in time and prevent Jonah's final ritual.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 87
Kudos: 296





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> this took me an obscenely long time to write (and I'm just talking the prologue here). With season 5 just around the corner, I figured that I should put in my own fix-it fic before Jonny Sims rips my heart out.

The day before the world ended, Martin enjoyed the best day of his life. A cool breeze floated through the open windows of the cottage, sending the curtains fluttering. It was the first clear day in weeks. Jon lay sprawled out on the couch, lazily flipping through a leather bound book he found on one of the many bookshelves. Whether the myriad books were in place because Daisy enjoyed reading them, or if bookshelves offered sufficient disguise for blood splatters on the wall, Martin was not sure. He chuckled to himself, nonetheless and leaned over the arm of the couch, placing a quick kiss on Jon’s scarred forehead. Jon closed the book gently, offering him a warm smile from his position on the couch. 

“It’s the first nice day in weeks,” Martin pointed out, leaning on the arm of the couch, his face hovering ever so slightly over Jon’s. “We should go out and enjoy it. I’ll bring a picnic.”

“Yes, but that would involve cooking and preparation,” Jon replied, rolling off the couch and into a sitting position. “I want to leave now.”

“Fine, fine,” Martin capitulated, turning towards the small kitchen. “I’ll just pack bread, cheese, and a thermos of tea.”

Jon nodded in agreement, shuffling back to their shared bedroom to fetch a sweater. Though he knew that such peace couldn’t last, not with as many open ends as there was after the panopticon and the lonely, he felt no shame in enjoying this rare time of domesticity. He owed it to Martin in the very least. 

He lingered in the bedroom, running his thumb against the edge of the comforter. Domesticity proved beneficial for him; the heavy, dark bags beneath his eyes had subsided somewhat, testament to restful sleep and no all-nighters holed away in his office. He felt less overwhelmed without the usual emotional turmoil weighing him down. In this small, Scottish cottage with Martin–who Jon could finally admit he loved–he was _safe_. Maybe not safe from Elias or Jonah, and maybe not even safe from the police, but he managed to feel secure. 

He grabbed a sweater from the old, cherry-wood dresser, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. It was far too big for him; in all honesty, all his clothes were now that he was so thin, but this sweater was exceptionally so. Jon wrapped his arms around himself, swimming in Martin’s sweater, and hurried to meet him at the door. 

“I know you hate sour baguettes, so I brought the sweet one,” Martin hummed, pushing the front door open and leading Jon into the pleasant spring afternoon. 

Jon nodded in appreciation and reached for Martin’s free hand, walking beside him through the green countryside. Cows ambled through the adjacent fields, punctuating the sweet sounds of nature with a well-timed moo. Their shaggy hair quite reminded Jon of Martin’s own. Martin’s hair had grown out; he sported fluffy, auburn curls that fell right to his jawline. 

They enjoyed the walk to the field in comfortable silence, revelling in each other’s company and the warmth of the day. As soon as he reached the grassy field, Martin dropped the picnic basket lazily and fell onto his back with a contented grunt. Jon took that as an invitation to curl up next to Martin, his head resting on his chest. From their supine position, they watched thin clouds pass unhurriedly through the sky. 

“I would like to do this with you forever,” Jon mumbled, relaxing further into Martin’s chest. He did not provide a follow-up to his statement, allowing all of its implications to ring free. He trusted Martin to understand his intentions.

“Yeah.” Jon could hear Martin’s heart rate increase. “I’d like that too.”

Jon rested on Martin’s chest in silence, absorbing the gentle warmth of the sun and hoping that its rays would restore his rich, dark complexion. Hours holed up in the archives left Jon faded and pale. He not only felt like death, but he looked like it.

He finally moved from his comfortable position once Martin’s stomach emitted a low grumble. 

“I do hope the tea’s still warm,” Jon hummed, rolling into a sitting position and rifling through the bag Martin brought in pursuit of a metal thermos.

“It’s a thermos, Jon,” Martin sighed. “Keeping tea warm is what it does.”

“Of course, I  _ know  _ that. Cold tea is just so disappointing.”

Martin hummed happily as he poured the steaming tea between two mugs. 

“My grandmother always used to put a little cardamom in our tea when I was younger,” Jon mumbled, blowing on his mug. The steam fogged up his lenses. “She said it reminded her of her childhood.”

“Did she ever take you to India?” 

“Once.” Jon took a deep sip from his mug. “But I really don’t remember it at all.”

“I’ve never left the country, you know?” Martin chuckled. “All my family’s here and my mum was never really one for travelling. Once all this blows over, we should go somewhere.”

“I’d love to. Some distance from the Institute would be quite nice. I would like to take you to India with me, but I fear I’d be an awful host. I don’t know anything about the country, much less speak Hindi.”

“It would be fun anyway!” Martin cut a slice of baguette for himself. “I’ve always wanted to go to America as well.”

“I may be biased, as I was kidnapped there, but it’s not all that special, really.”

“Oh you’re definitely biased!”

After their tea and snacks, Jon and Martin returned to the cottage, walking at the same, unhurried pace through the countryside. The sun had passed its zenith, inching back towards the horizon and casting a golden light over the serene landscape. Jon and Martin drank it all in before they opened the door to the cottage and settled in for the night, hoping that the next day would prove just as peaceful. 

* * *

Martin clutched Jon’s shaking body, wincing as bones dug into his skin. Jon had lost so much weight since before the coma. Yet, at this moment, Jon’s weight loss did not hold a candle to the true calamity Martin was facing. One brief glance out the shattered window confirmed that Martin did not merely imagine the apocalypse in some trauma-induced fever dream. No, the end of the world was truly upon them, as far as the all-seeing eyes, suspended in the sickly red sky could tell. He trembled with Jon, unable to force out platitudes of comfort. There was nothing left to say. So he held Jon and cried silent tears as Jon’s eyes stared indefinitely and all-seeing into the distance. 

Perhaps Martin fell asleep in the hours he sat on the living room floor, but night never came. The sky continued in its throbbing, red light, prohibiting the comfort of darkness to wash over the countryside. Everything stopped for the Ceaseless Watcher as it drank in everything from the Scottish Highlands to America’s grassy plains, and Jon watched with it. The Archive finally had sufficient nourishment. 

Finally, Martin clambered to his feet, swaying as he tried to steady himself despite his weakness. Jon remained supine on the floor, his eyes open as if in death, but his chest still rising and falling in erratic, heaving breaths. Even on his feet, Martin kept Jon’s hand in his. 

“Jon.” Martin’s voice cut through the suffocating quietness, leaving his throat in a strangled sob. He placed Jon on the couch, kneeling in front of him and meeting his unseeing–no–all-seeing eyes. “Jon, please wake up. If you can hear me at all–if you can see me, please just wake up. I need you to be okay.”

Jon’s body spasmed, his eyes glowing a vivid, unnatural green. He staggered to his feet, tripping over to the open window. No breeze flowed into the cottage; everything was perfectly still. 

“Jon, look at me!” Martin cried, hurrying over to Jon and clasping his shoulder. 

He turned around, color fading from his eyes. For a moment, he seemed to focus on Martin, heaving in one deep breath before he collapsed into Martin’s arms. 

Martin helped him to the ground, dropping to his knees beside him, frantically checking for a pulse. He cried out in relief to find one, though the way it pounded against his touch worried him further. He realized quickly after that Jon was in fact panting; beads of sweat began to pour down his face as his body heaved with each breath. Martin lifted him off the ground and onto the sofa again, propping his head up on its arm. 

“Jon,” he murmured, running his hand down Jon’s face, hoping to wake him. “Can you hear me, love?”

Jon’s eyes shot open and he awoke with a gasp; his eyes were clouded over with fever as his thin body shook. 

“I can see it all!” he rasped. He gazed blankly forward, unaware of Martin’s presence. “Everyone is so afraid and I can feel all of it. All of their suffering and all of their trauma; it’s all mine!” His rambling devolved into violent coughs that wracked his body. After they petered away, he slipped back into unconsciousness, plagued with a fitful sleep. 

Martin was used to caring for the ill; he cared for his mother for nearly a decade before she died. And Martin was used to getting no response from the patient, but always in a dismissive sense. He was not used to the patient being completely unresponsive; he had no idea how to care for someone who was overwhelmed from holding all of the world’s fear. 

Numbly, he stumbled over to the small kitchen, grabbing a dishrag and wetting it under the sink. His hands shook under the cool water. Placing the cool rag on Jon’s forehead, which glistened with a sheen of sweat, Martin settled down next to him on the couch and began his silent vigil. 

Jon made no signs of lucidity in the hours Martin watched him. He thrashed under the thin sheet, his eyes cracking open slightly only when he rambled about fear or the archives. Martin sat beside him, sinking into the soft cushions of the couch. Every hour, he rose to rinse off the washcloth Jon saturated with his sweat. Eventually, he nodded off into a fitful sleep, his perception of time non-existent. He did not have the energy to shamble into the bedroom to retrieve his phone. 

“ _ No. No, Martin. You know the reason. Your mother simply hates you. You just don’t know why. _

_ “It’s not your fault, though I know that isn’t any consolation. Just bad luck, really. How old were you when your father left? Eight? Nine? When your mother began to sicken, and he decided he was done with you both. Not old enough to remember him with any great clarity, especially when your mother refused to keep any pictures of him. She never recovered from that betrayal. He just tore her heart right out and took it with him. _

_ The thing is, though, Martin. If you ever do want to know exactly what your father looked like… All you have to do is look in a mirror.” _

_ Elias’s–no Jonah’s–words echoed in Martin’s subconscious, ringing from every corner of his dream. His smug face was suspended in the sprawling sky above Martin’s dreamscape, gazing down at him, his smirk growing as his statement progressed.  _

_ The apocalyptic scene collapsed in itself, opening again to reveal a blindingly white hospital room. The monitors beside the hospital beds beeped, echoing far too loudly in Martin’s mind. The room spanned far further than it should, revealing only two pristine white beds in the center. Martin found himself rooted in place, unable to hurry over to either of the patient’s bedsides. He could not yet glean their identity, but his mind insisted that they were important. He fought against whatever force kept him rooted firmly in place, straining his neck to view the patients on the bed. No matter how he turned his head, their identities shyed just out of view. _

_ The monitors continued to beep incessantly, sound bouncing off the tall, empty walls. As it grew louder, Martin found his mind growing more and more clouded. Even dream logic escaped him as a feeling of disorientation blossomed in his core.  _

_ Jon was in front of him.  _

_ And so was his mother.  _

_ He no longer knew where he was. The walls melted away, sagging like plastic and returning to an unnaturally smooth ground.  _

_ Jon and his mother were unconscious in their respective hospital beds.  _

_ The monitor was gone. _

Beep. Beep. Beep

_ The noise was still there, droning on and threatening to drive Martin insane. _

_ A wall grew behind the two hospital beds. It was made from hard packed dirt, sporting grassy patches that snaked up its tall face. In the center was a clean, yellow door.  _

_ “Martin.” Helen’s abnormally long fingers lingered on the doorknob.  _

_ “A-are you real?” Martin mumbled, his body beginning to shake.  _

_ “I don’t believe I could ever call myself real, Martin,” she chuckled, closing the door behind her. “I do love manifesting in dreams, though, if that clears anything up.” _

_ “It doesn’t.” _

_ “You seem to be facing a crisis.” _

_ “We all are! The world is ending, Helen. Actually, I’m pretty sure it already ended. There are goddamn  _ eyes  _ in the sky. And Jon isn’t lucid enough to explain what happened, but from what I can tell, he makes it seem like it’s his fault. Basira is obviously compromised, Daisy is as good as dead, Melanie and Georgie may be safe, but how could anyone be safe in these conditions? Did you know that I’m the only archival assistant left? My simple office job has a sixty seven percent mortality rate. I’ve been facing a fucking crisis since Jane Prentiss trapped me in my apartment. I don’t know what is happening anymore, and so yes. I’m facing a bit of a crisis.” _

_ “I’d rather Jon not lose all humanity.” _

_ “Me neither! I-I already lost him once. I can’t do it again. I don’t even know what you are–much less  _ who  _ you are, but you can’t totally be in favor of everything Jonah’s done.” _

_ “I’m on no one’s side, Martin. That would go against my nature. But I do not want Magnus to win. His world is not quite confusing enough for me. With pure terror all the time, humans get predictable. And where’s the fun in that?” _

_ “Well, is there anything you can do about it?” Martin found that he was no longer in the middle of a sprawling, blank plane. Helen stood in front of him in the middle of a grassy field–the one right outside the safehouse. But the sky was blue and cloudless. He was still dreaming.  _

_ “I will give you a choice, Martin,” Helen offered, cocking her head to one side. Her undulating off-brown hair fell with her head just a second too late. “You may return to the past and try your hardest to prevent Jonah from getting his way alone, or you may bring the Archivist. What do you pick?” _

_ “Of course I’m going to bring Jon with me!” The answer was so obvious, something had to be wrong. Was Helen testing Martin, checking to see if The Lonely still had a firm grasp on him? Or was he seriously tossed such a soft throw? _

_ Helen’s eyes lit up, and with them, the rest of her body. “You’d subject our poor, tired Archivist to reliving all of his traumas again? Just so that you can bring your love with you? Don’t you think he’s suffered enough?” _

_ Martin chuckled. If Helen intended to catch him off guard with her response, she failed miserably. “Trust me. Jon would want nothing more than to try all of this again. I’d be depriving him of well-deserved revenge and atonement if I went back without him.” _

_ “So be it!” Helen announced, throwing her hands into the sky with a dramatic flourish. “Once the Archivist feels well again, you will find a door. I trust that you know what to do from there.” _

“Do I get a map or–” Martin was on the couch again, calling out to the shattered window. With a long-suffering sigh, he rose to his feet to survey the living room. Broken glass littered the carpet by the window and the curtains had been shred by the impact. Jon still lay unconscious on the couch, though his breathing was far less labored. He almost looked peaceful. 

Though a sheen of sweat still glistened on his brow, Jon’s face had lost the sickly flush that accompanied a high fever. Martin nodded slowly to himself, appreciating a clarity in thought that he had not possessed for the past few days. With that clarity came a recognition of hunger. When was the last time he had a meal? He was starving. 

Before he rummaged through the cabinets in search of a can of soup, Martin began to sweep up the glass littering the carpet. A cool breeze blew into the living room. Before the draft hit him, Martin expected the cool, sweet air of the countryside; he flinched when suffocating, dry air forced its way into the cottage. Stifling a cough, Martin closed the torn curtains and turned towards the kitchen. 

It was a miracle they still had running water; Martin expected basic amenities like electricity and running water to be the first to go when the world had so obviously ended, but he found himself in a fully functioning kitchen with working lights. If the cabin had WiFi in the first place, he speculated that it would work too. 

The sweet scent of tomato soup wafted through the kitchen into the living room, chasing out the old air. Martin’s stomach growled angrily as he poured his bowl full of soup, but before he could slake his hunger, he poured another bowl for Jon. In a few ravenous slurps, he finished the soup and placed the ceramic bowl in the sink. Pleased to find that Jon’s soup was still warm, he placed it carefully on the coffee table adjacent to the couch. 

Martin placed his hand on Jon’s cheek, pleased to notice that it was neither clammy nor feverish. “Hey Jon, I’ve got some soup for you,” he murmured sweetly. 

His heart skipped a beat when Jon’s eyes cracked open slightly, perfectly brown instead of glowing green. 

“Martin?” he mumbled, turning his head slowly towards Martin. “What ‘appened?”

“I’ll explain it all in a second.” Martin’s face erupted in a grin upon Jon’s lucidity. He wondered if Helen was responsible for Jon’s recovery or if he just needed to process all of the information he was exposed to after whatever sick ritual resulted in a suspended, all-seeing eye. He hoped for the latter, as Helen’s help never came with completely good intentions; she was mutinous by nature and, as she herself put it, a walking contradiction. Perhaps Martin was augmenting her manipulative abilities, as he was ever-cautious of the web, but fear entities never truly meant well. Shaking his head, as if to clear the tangent, Martin focused on Jon again. 

“Have some soup right now,” he suggested, helping Jon into a sitting position. “You haven’t eaten anything in a while now.”

Jon nodded in compliance and took the bowl in his shaking hands. 

“How do you feel?” Unconsciously, Martin braced himself for the abrasive response he expected. 

He heard Jon’s quiet voice instead. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a train,” he said after taking a small sip of the piping soup. “This is worse than I felt after I lost a rib. How long have I been asleep?”

Martin let out a dry chuckle. “In all honesty, I don’t really know. I’ve been out of it too.”

“The last thing I remember is-” Jon squeezed his eyes shut, his knuckles growing white as he gripped the soup bowl. “He got what he wanted, I assume?”

“I-I’m still not entirely sure what happened, Jon,” Martin admitted. “I read a little bit of the statement on the ground, but I couldn’t bring myself to get through it. I just–something was stopping me from finishing reading it. I think it was meant for you and you alone.”

“Jonah left it for me.” Jon spat out the name ‘Jonah’ with immense hatred. “He used me to complete his ritual. All of the fear is here now, Martin. It’s not just the eye.”

“Oh.”

“If I had just not gotten hurt once,” Jon cursed, squeezing his eyes shut again. “If I hadn’t asked Mike Crew so many questions, or if I had run away from Jude Perry, or if we had just stopped The Unknowing successfully, Jonah wouldn’t have been able to do it.”

“I have a way we can fix all of this,” Martin announced, reaching for Jon’s scarred hand and squeezing it gently. “It’s well–a little far-fetched.”

“What is it?” 

“Well, I know this sounds crazy, but time travel.” Martin’s cheeks flushed a deep pink. Saying it aloud solidified its absurdity. But if he could come to terms with fear entities and body-hopping eldritch horrors, time travel wasn’t that unbelievable. 

“How do you know how to time travel, Martin?” Jon’s eyes narrowed in incredulity. 

“Helen told me about it earlier today–well it could have been any time between the ritual and now–anyway, she offered to send us back in time to fix everything that happened.”

“Yes, but how would that work?”

Martin opened his mouth but quickly found that he did not have an answer to Jon’s question. Helen never offered an explanation, did she?

“Helen just said that there would be a door as soon as you got better,” Martin said, grimacing at the obscurity of his statement. “I was going to ask more, but she just left.”

“There’s no door now, is there?” Jon started, his eyes still narrowed. 

“I’ll go check.”

Martin left the living room for the first time in what could have been days, creeping through the hallway with the same trepidation as a child traversing their house at night. He didn’t know what he was scared of finding, but he could not shake the underlying feeling of dread that threatened to overtake him. Fear was everywhere–even in their safehouse. Slowly, he pushed open his bedroom door, bracing himself for some impact or jumpscare. Nothing had been disturbed. His phone sat on the nightstand, still plugged into the charger. If he were to have service in the cottage, he was sure that his phone would be overflowing with notifications. The only notification on his home screen was a several-day-old reminder to water his online plants (he downloaded the app while living in London with no where to keep a garden). Glancing at the date and time, Martin found that three days had passed since he returned home from his walk to find the world ended and Jon at the center of it all. 

Glancing around the bedroom, he noticed no new doors; a quick peek into the adjacent bathroom revealed none either. Perhaps Jon wasn’t fully recovered. Upon returning to the living room, his chest filled with warmth when he saw Jon splayed out gently on the couch, his soup bowl empty, and his chest rising and falling in steady, peaceful breaths. Maybe he wasn’t well quite yet, but at least he was cute. 

* * *

Jon recovered slowly, remaining conscious for more time every day, until after a week, he was able to go the entire day without falling asleep. Though he was no longer phasing in and out of consciousness, he felt weak; at times he felt like something inherent was missing, though it took him several days to discern the root of the feeling. 

One rainy spring morning, Jon awoke to the soft patter of the rain on his windowsill and an epiphany. He nodded slowly to himself and shuffled into a sitting position on the bed. He no longer craved statements. He was full. The power of The Beholding still resided within him, though it seemed to possess some latency, but the overwhelming voracity for trauma was extinguished. 

Should he be ecstatic? Jon was unsure. The sudden ceasing of his hunger for statements could only prove concurrent with Jonah Magnus’s ritual, and anything relating to Jonah was sinister. 

Martin still slept beside him, curled up next to Jon’s hip. He did not look close to waking up; it was only six in the morning, after all. Carefully, Jon slipped out of bed, sighing in relief when Martin didn’t stir. Pulling his plush slippers on, he padded into the living room, shivering in the cool morning. It was easy to ignore the eyes in the sky for a moment as he lit the fireplace and breathed in the warm scent of burning wood. It was easy for Jon to ignore the eyes, but he could not ignore all of the fear–and terribly, it felt wonderful. 

As Jon shuffled into the kitchen, his gaze was instantly drawn to another door. A pristine pastel yellow door was nestled in between two cabinets–just tall enough for Jon to squeeze through. Instantly, Jon’s hand was wrapped around the handle. Static filled his mind, chasing away any concerns he had against stepping through the door. Before he could throw it open and enter the spiral’s meandering hallways, a hand grasped his shoulder.

“I see the door is finally here.” Martin’s voice broke through the static. He wrapped Jon into a bear hug and shuffled away from the door. “Why don’t we both get dressed and go together?”

“I-Martin, I’m so sorry,” Jon stuttered, sense returning to him in an instant. “I couldn’t control it–I just–I almost left without you.”

“But you didn’t.” Martin kept his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “You didn’t and you didn’t mean to. It’s okay, we’ll go together now.”

“Yes. Yes we will.” Jon exhaled, nodding slowly. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Should I bring my credit card?” Martin rummaged through his suitcase, piling necessities for time-travel into a backpack. 

“I thought you got rid of it before we went off-grid?” Jon sighed, running his thumb over the engraved spider web pattern on his lighter. 

“Well, I was going to get rid of it, but I figured that once everything blew over, it would be nice to still have my card. I wasn’t using it while we were here, though.”

“Regardless, I don’t think using a card that should not technically exist will go well after we time travel.”

Martin chuckled and snapped the card in half, placing it in the bottom of his suitcase. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder he helped Jon to his feet. 

“You ready to save the world?” 

“I’m ready to kick Jonah’s ass.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 1

Jon clutched Martin’s hand as he followed Helen’s meandering hallways. He didn’t have a map or anything explicitly instructing him on which direction to go it, but he allowed his instinct–or really, The Beholding–to guide him. They did not speak as they walked. Jon feared that whatever he said would come out in a garbled, distorted mess, following in suit of the hallways’ nature. 

Time didn’t quite…work as Jon and Martin followed the hallways, which Jon speculated was quite the point, but he turned to look at Martin every few minutes to make sure he was still holding hands with the man he knew. 

Finally, another door came into view. Carefully, Jon twisted the handle open with his free hand, stepping through the threshold. 

Jon stumbled over the lip of the door, tripping into the living room of his old flat. It was cold, as he often left it (why waste money on heating when you can layer on clothing and drink piping tea?) and smelled faintly of dust and old books. His apartment was clean, not because he was a particularly tidy person, but because he kept his surroundings sparse. The furniture in his living room consisted of a brown couch, an old television placed on top of a stack of old cookbooks, and bookshelves covering the walls. 

He turned on his heel, prepping a sarcastic dig at his past self, but did not see Martin behind him. The door was gone, and he was alone in his cold living room. His chest filled with panic as he scanned his apartment frantically. He had just been grasping Martin’s hand, how could they have been separated? Squeezing his eyes shut, he hoped that the door spat Martin out in his own flat, and that they would be reunited as soon as Jon went to work the next day. Speaking of, what day  _ was  _ it? He reached into his pocket to reveal a mobile phone far older than the one he had in Scotland. The date on the top of the screen read “March 21nd, 2016”, two days before he was to record his first real statement. 

Jon took a moment to comprehend his current situation, sinking down into the cushions of his couch. As he ran a hand through his hair, he noticed that it reverted to a close-cropped style; not only was he back in time, but he was in the body of his several years younger self. He still felt the pressure of The Beholding in his head, though he was not sure if he should consider it a good thing. With a deep, steadying breath, he extended his mind through the streets of London, attempting to Know if Martin was the version of himself Jon was hoping for. Before he could reach Martin’s flat, his field of Knowing flickered and disappeared. Black spots danced in Jon’s vision as he staggered backwards onto the couch, clutching desperately onto consciousness. Maybe The Beholding was not used to inhabiting this body. A low rumble in his stomach confirmed his suspicions, but how could he be human while still holding the power of The Beholding, no matter how weakly it manifested?

As soon as Jon’s vision came back into focus, he shambled into the kitchen, searching for something easy to cook. His fridge was well stocked, as he actually  _ ate  _ at this time; reaching for a container of chickpeas, he began to cook a quick daal over his small, electric stove. The rich smell of spices wafted through his small flat, replacing the cold dusty smell that lingered in his living room. 

Eating alone at his table proved more lonely than Jon expected. Though he did not spend an awfully long amount of time with Martin in their safehouse, he found himself adapting to a comfortable, domestic life easily. With a sigh, he fished his phone out of his pocket and began to scroll through the music he downloaded. Some of his music fit his pretentious, academic appearance–his playlist of classical music in particular–but the rest of his music reflected a version of himself that his college friends knew well. Though it did not quite not fit Jon’s current aesthetic, punk rock was  _ good _ . 

The evening passed quickly, leaving Jon with the issue of sleep. During this time, he was still able to sleep without seeing other people’s trauma, but he could not be sure if those dreams would go away now that he was back in time.

The dreams remained. He dreamed of statements that should not have happened yet, lingering in the corners of the statement-givers consciousness as he watched with many unblinking eyes. Though the dreams were terrifying in their own right, Jon could only sense redolent fear and an overwhelming sense of confusion. Fear did not wash over him in waves, as he had become accustomed to; it lapped at his feet, but barely provided its terrible nourishment. 

Jon awoke to a pounding headache. The feeling was similar to a hangover, though Jon could not remember the last time he experienced one. Blinking against harsh light pouring in from his window, he slowly got dressed and ready for what would be his first day as head archivist. If he remembered correctly, he should be pulled into a meeting with Elias–no Jonah–first thing this morning; Jonah should inform him of his promotion, apologize for how last minute the announcement was, and send him off to record some statements and organize the mess Gertrude left. How Jon was going to get through an (admittedly brief) meeting with Jonah without throttling him, he was unsure. He could only hope he could maintain enough composure to stalk out of Jonah’s office and burn him in effigy shortly after. 

He gulped down a glass of water before glancing back at his flat and scanning the living room for a yellow door. Everything was where it was supposed to be. Jon locked the door behind him and began his short commute to the institute. 

* * *

Jon was greeted by Rosie’s smiling face at the front desk. She looked up from her computer and raised an eyebrow in concern. 

“You look awfully tired today, love.” Jon supposed that his past self would have been at least miffed when he was referred to as “love”, but hearing Rosie’s gentle concern was nothing but comforting. 

“Long night,” Jon offered, smiling back at her and making his way down to the archives. He stopped himself right before he began to descend the stairs. He didn’t work down there yet, and he wouldn’t for another twenty minutes. Hoping Rosie didn’t notice his slip, he turned and took the stairs up to research. 

The warm, dry air of the library washed over Jon as he pushed the doors open. As usual, he was the first to arrive–punctuality was always his strong suit. The smell of old books proved comforting as Jon settled down at his old desk, scanning it for any hints towards what assignments he was supposed to be finishing. The Beholding offered him a lot of knowledge, but often skimped when it came to simple, useful pieces of information. Jon constantly forgot recipes and scheduled appointments, but he had a complete recollection of every statement in the archive. Now, he found that he could not begin to remember what statement he was supposed to follow up on. 

He knew that Martin was currently in the same building as him, either having a completely normal day, or dealing with the same disorientation Jon was currently facing. He resisted the urge to send Martin a text–something vague enough to pass as a text intended for someone else, but pointed enough that Martin would be able to recognize this ‘future’ Jon. Though he wanted to confirm Martin’s identity as soon as possible, he currently did not have Martin’s number in his phone, though he still had it memorized. 

With a sigh, he turned back to staring aimlessly at his desk, waiting for Rosie to come up to research and send him to Jonah’s office. Tim arrived three minutes late, ambling through the door with a jaunty gait and settling down at his desk across from Jon. 

“You’re late.” Jon maintained an even tone, repressing the fierce grin threatening to overtake his features. It was good to hear Tim’s voice again. 

“Yeah, by three minutes.” Tim swung his feet onto his desk, leaning back in the swivelling chair. “I’m sure you didn’t make any breakthroughs in three minutes.”

Jon chuckled and turned to the doorway, awaiting Rosie’s entrance any moment now. 

“What’s gotten into you? You’re never happy. I thought you’d be nervous today since we’ll be finding out who the new archivist is. I know you put an application in.” Tim waved his hand in front of Jon’s glazed-over eyes. “Hello? Jonathan Sims in there?”

“Hm?” He ripped his gaze away from the doorway and forced a grimace of a smile. “Yes, yes. Tired is all.”

“Well I hope being tired doesn’t make you slack off or anything–oh who am I kidding? You probably work in your sleep, anyway.”

Jon hummed in response and checked the time in the top right of his computer. The bright blue light shocked his eyes, sending another throb through his head. Rosie was five minutes late. There was no way he could have influenced the past in the few hours since he arrived! He had barely changed his nightly routine and he entered the institute that morning just as early as he would usually. The only difference was that he was now The Archivist and not completely Jonathan Sims. Gertrude was still dead and the role of archivist still needed filling. Jon would have to get the job at some point. 

“God, Jon.” Tim broke Jon from his internal monologue. “You really didn’t get any sleep. You’re barely present today.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” With a groan, he rolled his neck and turned back to the blinding computer screen. “I’ll be more present now.”

“Great, because we need to finish following up on that old statement from last week. Apparently there’s an artefact connected to it and we’re supposed to look into its history or something. I don’t know, I’ll forward you the email Hannah from Artefact Storage sent me. It’s more spooky shit.”

“What’s the case number?” Jon skimmed through the email, hearing a low buzz emerge in the back of his mind as he read through the description of the pendant Hannah had in her possession. 

“You’re not going to groan about how ‘there’s no way an necklace could eat a whole family’ and that ‘following up on this would be an utter waste of time’?” Tim sat straighter and pushed fake glasses up on his nose as he imitated Jon, earning himself a fond scowl.

“It’s obviously–uh–fake, but I’d rather just get through the work and let the archives deal with confirming its validity.”

“That could be you down there,” Tim teased. “Though it really should be Sasha. Let’s be honest here. She is more qualified.”

“Wait, Sasha put in an application?” Jon hadn’t taken the time to scope out his competition for the position last time around. He put together his application and received his promotion in such rapid succession that he barely had time to stew in nervousness over whether he’d get the job or not. Whether Sasha’s candidacy for head archivist was a quirk of this new timeline or something that had happened in Jon’s first attempt, he could not be sure, yet he could not risk Beholding the information and alerting Jonah of his…status. 

“Yeah, Jon.” Tim raised an exasperated eyebrow and shook his head. “You don’t even know the other people vying for the job?”

“It was all so sudden, with Gertrude dy-disappearing without any warning.”

“Yeah, well see who the new archivist is soon. Anyway, I don’t know what the case number for that statement is. The filing system makes absolutely no sense.”

“Tell me about it,” Jon groaned, rubbing his temples. “I’ll just email Hannah.”

Rosie was eight minutes late. As the minutes ticked by with no alert, Jon’s urge to Know what Jonah was doing grew exponentially. His headache grew with his impatience and he soon found that focusing on the glaring screen proved impossible. 

“I’m going to grab some tea from the break room.” With a quiet groan, he pushed himself out of his seat and made his way to the heavy doors of the room. 

As soon as he heaved the doors open, he ran head-on into Rosie. 

“Oh, Jon!” She exclaimed, stumbling back a few feet. “I was just looking for you. Is Tim in there as well?”

Martin stood behind her, his eyes flashing with distress behind thick glasses. Either he was privy to new changes in the timeline, or he was just his previous, nervous self. Either way, Jon attempted to meet his gaze with his own look of concern. Martin offered a little nod, leaving Jon cursing himself for his inability to read people. 

“Yes, Tim is back at his desk.” Jon fixed his collar with shaky hands and turned back towards the doors. “I can get him if you want.”

As Jon led Tim back into the hallway, he continued to decipher Martin’s nod. Was it merely a nod of acknowledgement? A nod that did nothing but address his presence? Or was it a nod of confirmation, saying ‘yes, I’m from the future too and something is already wrong’?

“Well, Mr. Bouchard would like to see the three of you, so I’ll send you all down to his office now.” Rosie offered a gentle smile before turning on her heel and heading down the stairs towards the reception desk. 

Jon turned to Martin and steadied himself. “So, your opinion on good cows?”

“I’ve seen some lovely ones up in Scotland,” Martin replied steadily, adjusting his glasses.

“You two know each other?” Tim butted in. “I didn’t think Jon here had any friends other than yours truly.”

“We had a discussion in the break room a few weeks ago. Martin has some interesting opinions on poets.”

“I’d substitute ‘interesting’ with ‘correct’, but yeah. We’ve talked a bit before.” Martin put on a friendly smile, his demeanor unthreatening. “Do you know what this is all about?”

“If you two weren’t here as well, I’d think Elias was finally firing me,” Tim chuckled, leading the group down the stairs. “But he’d never fire the ever hardworking Jonathan Sims, so I’m safe in that regard.”

“Do you know who the new archivist will be, Martin?” Jon sent him a knowing glance. 

“I have my suspicions, but I’m not so sure anymore.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

Martin knocked lightly on Elias’s door, taking a visibly deep breath. 

“Come in!” Elias called from his office. Jon flinched at the sound of his voice. 

Elias sat on his chair, leaning back comfortably. Sasha sat across from him, fidgeting in a wooden chair. 

“I’m so glad you are all here. I’d offer you a seat, but I seem to be a few short.” He waved his hand lazily in front of him, gesturing to the lack of seats. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re all dying to know why you’re here. Especially one of you. Now, with Gertrude’s untimely disappearance, we have found ourselves in search for a new archivist. And I have chosen one! Congratulations to Sasha James who will be taking Gertrude’s place in the archives. As for you three, you will be her archival assistants. I hope you all enjoy the promotion. To celebrate, you can take the afternoon off. Go straight to the archives tomorrow morning.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so fun fact. I wrote out my plan for this chapter well before season five of tma aired, so call me prophetic I guess.... Anyway, writing these chapters is taking longer than I initially thought, so expect slow but steady updates! I am loving season 5 a whole lot, and I'm finding that a lot of little details are being proven non canon-compliant. Funky!


	3. Chapter 2

Jon stifled a gasp in response to Jonah’s announcement, sharing a panicked glance with Martin. He had been in the past for barely a day and was already faced with a completely unknown situation. Time travel seemed like a good idea simply because he would already know how to prevent the horrors that plagued him and his friends the first time around. With an unknown situation, Jon could not promise success. He had no way to know how Jonah’s plan changed with Sasha as The Archivist. Would she become The Archive now? Or was it still Jon’s job to be marked? 

He numbly followed Tim, Martin, and Sasha out of the office, fighting against his quickening breath. 

“Boss Sasha!” Tim exclaimed as soon as they were out of earshot of Jonah’s office. “We should all get drinks to celebrate! We got promotions  _ and  _ the coolest boss ever!” 

“I’m going home.” Jon grabbed Martin’s wrist and turned towards the stairs. 

“I’m so sorry Tim,” Martin called, turning his head as Jon dragged him up the stairs. “Jon doesn’t seem to be doing too well, so maybe some other time? Congratulations anyway, Sasha!” 

Tim furrowed his brow in confusion and turned to Sasha.   
“Looks like he didn’t take the news well,” he muttered. 

“Yeah, I almost feel bad.” Sasha snuck one final glance at Jon and Martin. “Also, when did they start being friends? I thought Jon didn’t talk to anyone?”

“He doesn’t. I have no idea how, when, or why they met. Martin mentioned something about a break room discussion, but they seem way closer than just ‘one conversation friends’.”

“You don’t think-”

“Jonathan Sims? God no, Sasha. I mean, he’s obviously not straight, but he also has a stick so far up his ass I don’t think he even knows what dating is.”

“Well it looks like he will be a real pleasure to work with. Especially with how he just reacted to rejection. Let’s get a drink anyway. I’m not letting this ruin my promotion day!”

* * *

Jon dragged Martin out the doors of the institute, earning a worried glance from Rosie. Sharp wind greeted him as soon as he stepped into the bustling London streets, washing away some pounding panic. Jon did not speak until he pulled Martin into his flat, locking the door behind him. He was suddenly faced with the fact that there had to be some eyes in his apartment–some old photograph or a book with someone’s face on the cover. He wouldn’t be safe until all of those eyes were gone, and the only trace of The Beholding in his apartment was himself. But he couldn’t wait now. Something was already terribly wrong. 

“Jon,” Martin muttered, sitting across from him at the kitchen table. “We need a plan.”

“I just–I don’t know what happened!” Jon squeezed his eyes shut, raking a worried hand through his short hair. “We haven’t changed anything as far as I know, and I can’t think of a reason that Jonah would choose Sasha now instead of me, when I was already marked by The Web.”

“To be fair, Helen never promised me that everything would be the same. And if Helen never explicitly promised, there’s no saying that everything in this new timeline would be right. In fact, even if she did promise, we can’t be sure that everything will be the same. There’s no point in fretting over it now; we just need to make another plan to fix everything.”

“There’s so much room for error now. I have no gauge for the extent of Jonah’s powers in this timeline anymore; my Knowing hasn’t been working as effectively, but in all honesty, I haven’t tested it extensively yet. How can I fix this timeline if I’m not the archivist? And can we trust Sasha with the information she’ll need to not Become?”

“Let’s take this one step at a time, Jon. Before we discuss whether or not we can just kill Jonah Magnus, let’s prevent Jane Prentiss from storming the Institute and marking any of us.”

“Okay.” Jon breathed out a sigh and lay his hand onto Martin’s. His smooth, brown skin glowed under his yellow kitchen lights. He had gotten used to gazing at marred skin, but if everything went well, he would never have to look at worm scars or extensive burns again. Still, a pang of longing struck him, reminding him that something important was missing. Without his scars, he was missing an integral part of what made him The Archivist, yet he was still not sure what that would entail for his health–or really, humanity. 

“Are you hungry?” Martin’s worried look assured Jon that he did not mean ‘hungry’ in the typical, human sense. 

“No.” He felt normal hunger, a low, rumbling sort of ache, reminding him that he skipped both breakfast and lunch, but no hunger for trauma. On his way back to his flat, he passed several people brimming with statements, but nothing drew Jon towards them. “But I would like some dinner.”

Martin chuckled and squeezed Jon’s hand a little harder. “I can order in, or we can make something. Whatever you want.”

“I’d like to cook tonight. With your help, of course.”

“Of course. I was thinking pasta?”

“Sounds wonderful.” Jon rose slowly from his chair and began to search through his cabinets. Luckily, he still had a box of spaghetti and the ingredients for pasta sauce in his kitchen, though food was low. He’d have to go shopping soon. 

“No meat, right?” Martin muttered absentmindedly, as he prepared the meal. As he diced tomatoes, his glasses slipped down his nose, dangling threateningly on the edge. 

Jon stepped close to Martin’s side, pushing his glasses back up with steady fingers. “Yeah. No meat.”

“Should we tell Tim and Sasha?” 

“Tell them about what?” Jon pushed himself up on the counter, sitting at Martin’s height.

“About us. You know, as a couple. We don’t have to of course! It would be hard to explain and all since we shouldn’t really know each other in this timeline–”

“I think we should, Martin,” Jon said, stopping Martin’s rambling. “Telling them will be telling one less lie, and I don’t think either of us need another layer of falsehood.”

“Tim is going to be utterly insufferable.” 

“Yes he will.”

* * *

Jon woke up before sunrise, blinking blearily as his eyes adjusted to the darkness in his bedroom. Martin snored quietly next to him, his arm splayed on top of Jon’s torso. He lay in place for several minutes, waiting for his brain to wake up fully so that he could plan for the day. He was an archival assistant now, working for Sasha, the archivist. Perhaps he could volunteer to sort the statements and refile them, reading them in the process. But all the live statements would go to Sasha, and Jon still did not have the foggiest idea of whether she would truly become The Archive or not. 

“Jon, what time is it?” Martin rolled over, retracting his arm and squinting at Jon through the darkness. “Are we going to be late?”

“No, it’s still early,” Jon whispered, tucking Martin’s hair behind his ear. “You can go back to sleep.”

“M’awake now. I’ll put some breakfast on.” Martin threw his legs off the side of the bed, rolling his shoulders in lazy circles. “You want to eat, or do you just want tea?”

“I’ll have both, and let me help.” Jon ran his hand across the bedside table, fumbling for his glasses. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to go to work and help Sasha and we’re not going to act suspicious.” He flicked on the light switch in the kitchen, squinting in the bright light. “You can make sure she doesn’t deal with any real statements by offering to sort them.”

“I was thinking the same,” Jon started, “but we can’t hold everything from her or else she’s going to get hurt. And who knows what Jonah’s planning now?”

“We’re going to find out, but we are going to need to observe him. You said that you can’t just Know without alerting him, so we’re going to have to do some old fashioned sleuthing.” Martin scraped some eggs onto a plate and handed it to Jon. 

“I’m just worried.” Jon rested his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. “I don’t want Sasha to go through what I did. And I don’t want her to subject you and Tim to what I did either.”

Martin let out a sad chuckle. “Jon, we are here to stop the apocalypse. We can’t fix every little thing that happened last time around. Some things are inevitable as long as we’re working in a fear-worshipping cult. We just have to make sure that we don’t lose anyone this time.”

“Okay. Okay, I can do that.”

Martin smiled and nodded, slowly working through his breakfast. The eggs had gone cold while they discussed, but he was still hungry enough to finish them. Though he put on a façade of calmness around Jon, he was equally as worried. He was unable to make any real differences from his position as an archival assistant in the past, and he had been banking on the fact that Jon would be able to use his power as Archivist to foil Jonah’s plans. Now he would be navigating this timeline blind, relying only on shreds of past similarities as a base on which he could make decisions, but he truly meant what he said. His first priority was to make sure no one died. Archival assistants were sacrifices–that was their purpose in the Magnus Institute, sacrifices for the Archivist so that they could serve The Eye. It was already too late for Tim and Sasha to leave, they’d signed their contracts the day before. One day in, and Martin had already missed a chance to free his coworkers, though he still wasn’t entirely sure if those out of the Archive could quit. He never paid enough attention to the other departments when the Archive was going to hell. 

He found himself brushing up against the question of Jonah’s death time and time again. He was old–appearing immortal, yes, but that was only because of body hopping. And though it was never verified, his life could very well be connected to the institute, which led Martin to a moral dilemma. If there was no other choice, would killing everyone in the Archive, and maybe the institute be worth stopping the apocalypse? Martin shook his head as if to clear the thought. It never had to come to that. If they could find a way to stop Jonah’s final ritual, no one would have to be sacrificed. 

“Are you okay, Martin?” Jon’s voice broke Martin from his thoughts. 

Forcing a smile, he waved his hand to brush off Jon’s concern. “Yes, just thinking.”

“Right, well I’m going to get dressed.” Jon rinsed off his plate in the sink before disappearing into the bedroom. 

Martin lingered in the kitchen for a few more moments before he realized something. He had instinctively followed Jon home the night before, borrowing a spare toothbrush and mindlessly searching through Jon’s closet for one of Jon’s oversized t-shirts which fit like a glove on him. He had slept over at Jon’s flat, but he never brought a change of clothes. With a sigh, he realized that he’d have to attend his first day as archival assistant in the same clothes he wore the day prior, though he figured no one looked at him closely enough to notice. 

Jon emerged from the bedroom, his hair combed back neatly, nearly hiding stubborn grey streaks at his temples. Martin could just make out the wing of his eyeliner from behind the glare of his glasses. 

“I like the makeup,” Martin said, making his way to the bedroom so that he could get ready. 

“Things have already changed. I may as well be a stylish Archival Assistant.” Jon re-shelved some books on his coffee table. “Once you’re ready, we should be on our way.”

“Are we going to arrive together?” Martin lingered in the threshold, not entirely sure if he was worried about his coworkers’ reaction or excited to finally be open about his relationship. 

“I don’t see why not. If we are to live together, we’re going to have to start arriving together eventually.”

“Right, about that. I’m going to need to stop by my flat and pick up clothes. Also, we should probably have a chat about housing arrangements and rents and such.”

“Yes, yes, we can do that later. In the meantime, we need to scope out the situation at The Archive.”

Martin stifled a chuckle. “In order to save the world Jon, we need to live comfortably. Believe it or not, we can’t just live at The Archives.”

“We’ve both done it.”

“Touché.”

* * *

Rosie greeted Martin and Jon at her desk, her smile growing as she noticed Jon’s hand in Martin’s. Jon released his grip on Martin’s hand and headed down the stairs to the Archives. It was always a few degrees colder down there, and Jon wondered if Jonah tweaked the heating as such just to bother the Archival employees. Such actions were exactly the level of petty pranking Jon expected from Jonah. 

Martin and Jon were the first to arrive, as the work day would not officially start for another fifteen minutes. Jon found himself resisting the urge to hole himself up in the Head Archivist office, the door closed firmly behind him, but instead of retreating into a familiar room, he leaned uncomfortably against an empty desk beside Martin, tapping his finger on the wood. 

Sasha arrived soon after, iced coffee in hand, and her long braids tied up in a neat bun. 

“Good morning!” She placed her bag in front of the door of what would be her new office and leaned against the frame. “I guess we’ll wait for Tim before we jump into business. How are you two doing today?”

“I’m doing well, thank you.” Jon offered Sasha a cordial smile, hoping that friendliness would make up for his reaction to her promotion the day prior. “I love your earrings. I’ve been looking for a pair just like that myself. Where did you get them?”

Sasha’s face broke into a grin as she whipped out her phone and showed Jon the website and location of the store in question. “It’s really my favorite. Their clothes are lovely too.”

“I’ll have to check them out!”

“I couldn’t recommend them more. Now, how did you two meet? If I remember correctly, you worked in two different departments.”

“We ran into each other in the break room a while back and really got on. Turns out we have similar tastes in poetry.” Martin gazed fondly at Jon’s profile as he described their fictitious meet-cute.

“Yes, indeed. We’re dating.” Jon nodded emphatically, resting his hand on Martin’s jerkily. Mentally, he berated himself for the abruptness of his statement. He didn’t want to beat around the bush, but he had forgone all subtlety and composure as well. 

Sasha’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh that’s lovely! You two make a cute couple.” One day into her new job and there was already an office romance, but not between the two people with a penchant for such drama. She could absolutely hold this over Tim. He had insisted ever so adamitely that Jon would never date, but here Jon was, holding hands with his new coworker. 

“Thank you!” Martin’s cheeks were stained red as he patted Jon’s hand awkwardly. 

Tim sauntered in through the doors of the Archives, cutting through the awkward silence that had manifested in the room. 

“Good morning boss, coworkers!” He threw himself onto an open table, sitting sprawled on top of it. “Are you all ready to get to work?”

“Tim, you’re ten minutes late,” Sasha reprimanded, pointing at the clock above the door. “I hope you don’t plan on making this a habit.”

“Whoah, whoah, no need to get all ‘mean-Sasha’ on me. I just missed my train this morning.” Tim raised his hands in surrender. 

Sasha sighed and rolled her eyes. “Well now that we’re all here, why don’t we go over some business. As you’ve probably noticed, the Archive is an utter mess. I couldn’t tell you why; knowing Gertrude, it’s quite out of character, but that’s irrelevant right now. I think we should go through all the statements down here and record them, organizing them in the process. Sounds good by you all?”

Perfect! Jon would have the opportunity to take all the real statements for himself and make sure that Sasha would never Become–if that was even possible. He nodded emphatically at Sasha’s proposal and shared a determined, knowing glance with Martin. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every week I learn more about The Archives and learn that so much of what I planned just isn't canon compliant anymore! Which just means that this is MY The Magnus Archives universe and things are different because I said so. Thank you to WolfTraps for pointing out some timeline stuff! I really thought I had the vague years figured out, but I really didn't. Since I've already outlined this, I won't be changing the timeline in this fic, but know that it is not canon-compliant. 
> 
> Also, I've fallen into a bit of a Mechanisms hole? I really just think they're neat! Especially Raphaella and Nastya :) The emotional whiplash of Jonny suddenly being murderous though? It's wild.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some more graphic descriptions in this chapter, but it falls under Canon-Typical gruesome horror descriptions

Jon sat down at the desk next to Martin’s–the desk that had previously belonged to Sasha. He had been instructed to bring everything from his desk in research down with him to the archives, but he only had a few extra pens and assorted other stationery, nothing personal. Martin’s desk was just as Jon remembered it, slightly cluttered with a few photos pushed to the corner. Two of the photos were of a younger Martin surrounded by what Jon assumed were childhood friends, while the last one was of Martin standing uncomfortably next to an older woman. Her face was blank, her eyes cold, and Jon was positive that she was Martin’s mother. 

“So you’re Martin?” Tim asked, swivelling in his chair to face Martin. “I’ve worked with Mr. Jonathan, here, but I’ve never really seen you before yesterday. What do you like?”

Martin’s eyes grew in surprise. “Oh! What do I like? Huh, well I do enjoy poetry and hiking. Just–you know–simple things!”

“How on good earth do you get along with Jon then? You two couldn’t be more different.”

“Oh, we found common ground–”

“If we’re all set up now, shouldn’t we get to work?” Jon interrupted, setting his pen down in a sharp motion. He turned to the door of Sasha’s office, surprised to see it open. He had always preferred to keep it closed and maintain a distance between himself and his coworkers. In hindsight, that distance certainly extended beyond physical. “Sasha, is there anything you’d like us to do?”

She hurried from her desk to the doorway, peeking her head out into the hall. “Oh yeah, if you guys could come in here and help me sort through all the statements in the office, that would be lovely. Gertrude really made a mess in here.”

“Of course, here we come,” Jon replied, motioning for Martin and Tim to follow him. 

The four squeezed into Jon’s–no, Sasha’s–already cramped office, hugging the walls. Boxes full of unfiled statements were strewn across the floor, files of paper spilling out of the tops. 

“Did any of you know Gertrude?” Sasha asked, her eyes narrowing. 

“I mean, I’ve met her a few times before. I’m  _ sure  _ I’ve had a conversation with her at some point.” Tim tapped his chin pensively, attempting to pull up a concrete memory of the former archivist. 

“No, you’d certainly remember her,” Sasha replied, chuckling slightly. “She was no senile grandmother.”

“I don’t know, Sash, these files don’t paint her as the most sane.” Tim gestured vaguely to the boxes on the ground, prodding one with his toe. Sheets of paper spilled out of the top and onto the ground. 

“Yeah, that’s my point. She wouldn’t do something like this without a reason.”

Jon turned his head to Martin, shooting him a meaningful glance. He had no idea that Sasha had her suspicions about Gertrude, nor did he know that Sasha knew Gertrude well enough to come to such conclusions. 

“Maybe she just really hated Elias?” Tim speculated. “And decided to leave everything a mess out of total spite?”

Sasha chuckled. “Maybe! But I don’t think Elias has ever done anything worthy of true hate. He seems like he’s just cruising as the head of this institute.”

Jon strengthened the intensity of his gaze, attempting to stifle both an angry rant about Jonah as well as a bout of laughter. Instead, he composed himself with a steadying breath and tapped his finger to his chin. “How do you plan to organize these statements? And should we catalogue them in any way?”

Sasha looked calculatingly at the statements. “Well, we can organize them by date of course, and as for cataloguing, Elias recommended recording them. I suppose a recording is more compact than loose files?”

“Plus, we can take a stab at spooky voice acting!” Tim butt in, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Jon merely nodded, though he knew that categorizing the statements by date was effectively useless. They really should be categorized by which entity they depicted, but Sasha did not need to know that, neither did Tim. 

“So. Our plan of action.” Sasha placed her hands on her hips, sizing up the statements in her office. “We’ll all take some statements and organize them in chronological order, then record them.”

“Erm, chronological order of when the statement was given, or when the actual event took place?” Martin asked, raising his finger to signal that he was asking a question.

“Order of when the statement was given,” Sasha responded, kneeling over and beginning to sort through a box. “Let’s get to work!”

Of course, Martin knew that the content of the statement was far more important than when it was given. Regardless, he nodded in agreement with Sasha’s statement and made sure either he or Jon got the real statements. An epiphany hit him. As soon as they started recording, some statements simply would not be recorded digitally–the real ones. Jon and Martin could volunteer to do all the tape-recorder recordings, saving Tim and Sasha from the influence of the entities. 

“Recording may be a bit difficult, Sasha,” Martin offered. “You’ll be fine, since you’ve got your own office, but Jon, Tim, and I are in the same room. It will be difficult not to get overlapping sounds.”

“We’ll just sit in the corners,” Jon offered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The room is certainly big enough that if we sit in the corners, you won’t be able to hear the other three.” He looked immediately to Sasha, who had opened her mouth to say something before Jon interrupted. His face reddened slightly. “That is, if you think that will work, Sasha.” He muttered, forcing a smile.

“Yeah, Jon’s certainly got a point. Plus, the more people recording, the quicker we’ll get through this mess.”

All three assistants nodded in agreement and began to sort through the boxes. They sorted statements in silence for several minutes, though the silence was not tense or awkward. Eventually, Tim sighed and looked up from the statement he was flipping through. 

“So, what did you all study in university?” he asked off-handedly. 

“Library science,” Sasha replied. “Obviously.”

“Wow, look at that! Sasha’s qualified or something,” Tim teased, raising his voice in a mocking tone. 

“Yeah, I’m in charge of you! It’s good that I am!”

“I majored in history,” Jon offered, his hand lingering on a real statement. Somehow, he could tell–without even reading the title–that the statement was connected to some entity, though he couldn’t glean which one. Carefully, he placed that statement behind him and continued to rifle through the box in front of him.

“Oh that’s nice! What did you write your thesis on?” Sasha asked. She really was more qualified for an Archivist position than Jon. It was strange that Jon didn’t seem to fully understand that. 

“Well, long story short, it was about the portrayal of queer people in theater throughout history. It was quite interesting to research.”

“I’m sure! That sounds lovely. I’d love to read it sometime.” Sasha’s tone was genuine. “And you, Martin? What did you major in?”

Martin sucked in an apprehensive breath. He could lie to keep up appearances, but now he knew full well that qualifications meant next to nothing in The Magnus Institute. Still, it would do more harm than good to expose himself for lying on his CV in front of his boss on the first day of work. 

“I studied parapsychology,” he said with a genuine smile. “It was quite fascinating!”

Now, Jon knew that Martin was telling a white lie, of course, but he could not help but realize how good of a liar Martin was. Perhaps lying in this moment was not particularly difficult–Jon would not really know, as he himself was terrible at lying, or really talking to people in general, but the ease at which Martin told his little fib suggested practice in said field. 

“Ooh yeah!” Tim cooed. “Studying spooky stuff must help for a job that deals with spooky stuff.”

“It’s not  _ spooky _ ,” Jon hissed through his teeth, rolling his eyes. 

“I don’t know about that,” Tim chuckled. “I just saw a statement about something that steals people’s skin! Sounds like spooky shit to me.”

_ The anglerfish! _ Jon suppressed the urge to lunge over the box in front of him and rifle through the statements Tim had already sorted. With a steadying breath, he met Tim’s gaze. 

“Well, let me see it then.” To his ears, his tone was measured and nonchalant, though Tim’s suspicious eyebrow raise suggested otherwise. 

“Yeah, sure.” He flipped through a few pages before brandishing one statement in victory and handing it to Jon. “In my honest–and quite correct–opinion, skin snatchers are by default spooky.”

“Hmm yes, I’m sure they are,” Jon mumbled, flipping through the statement. Without reading the words, he could feel its validity. Perhaps it was because he already knew the context and connotations of this statement, but he could feel the paper reek of the stranger. And–no he  _ had  _ to be imagining this–but he could swear that the paper itself smelled of plastic. With a shudder, he placed it in his pile of statements, inserting it just underneath one of a similar date.

“So, you're going to give that back?”

“Well, if it’s so ‘spooky’, I guess it’s best if I file and record it,” Jon replied, shrugging.

Tim opened his mouth to argue, but sucked in a sharp breath and rolled his eyes instead. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

* * *

The rest of the day went by without incident. The archive employees sorted through several boxes of statements, Sasha’s office slowly becoming more and more organized. Jon found that if he skimmed the statement before filing it away, he could usually identify the entity. Along with identifying the entity, he found that they evoked a visceral reaction, usually in the form of a smell. Statements regarding The Desolation reeked of smoke; The Flesh smelled of raw meat; The Corruption gave off the pungent odor of disease; The Dark smelled musty; The Hunt smelled of blood; The Slaughter of blood as well, but accompanied by the underlying smell of rotting corpses; The Stranger smelled of plastic; The Lonely of the seaside; The Vast of ozone; The Spiral of something Jon could not quite place, but something pungent nonetheless; The Buried of fresh soil; The End of rotting flesh; The Eye smelled of nothing, but Jon knew immediately if a statement belonged to it without even having to read the title. The only entity that shied away from his recognition was The Web. In fact, he couldn’t even pick out Web statements. He knew that they were real, but they smelled of nothing and just registered as  _ a statement _ in his mind.

Sasha glanced at the clock in her office, sighing as she registered the time.

“Well, looks like the day’s over,” she said, filing one last statement. “This was a pretty productive first day, guys! We’ll get through this mess yet.”

Jon was not used to going home when the work day actually ended, as he ended up pulling an all-nighter or crashing at The Archives more times than not, but there was not much he could do at The Archives now. According to the half-baked plan he had in his mind, he would have to wait until Jane Prentiss reared her worm-hole-ridden face before he could do anything drastic. 

Jon grabbed his bag from beside his desk, waiting for Martin to pack up before they left. 

“Ready to head home?” he asked, tapping a finger on his desk. 

“Yeah, let’s go.” Martin shoved a folder in his bag, swinging the strap over his shoulder.

He headed for the door first. Before Jon could leave after him, Sasha grabbed his wrist. Jon swiveled around, wrenching his arm from her grasp. He flinched at his abrupt response, offering an apologetic smile in an attempt at an apology. 

“Sorry about that.” Jon clenched and unclenched his fist. “I’m a little jumpy. Did you need me for something?”

“I’m sorry, I absolutely should not have just grabbed you like that,” Sasha apologized, her cheeks reddening. “It’s just–I–did you know Gertrude? You never answered before.”

“I’ve spoken to her a few times before yes.” Jon had actually never really spoken to her, but after everything he learned about her time as Archivist in his past timeline, he figured that he could feign knowing her well enough to fool Sasha. 

“Right.” Sasha looked around the office, pleased to find that it was empty. “It’s just that she seemed to know I would be the Archivist after her, but that’s not the weird part. She told me some things, but–” she stopped and sighed, seemingly weighing her words. “Actually, forget it. I’m overthinking things. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jon narrowed his eyes in confusion. Now he was incredibly curious. What did Gertrude tell Sasha? It was presumably something regarding the nature of the Institute, but Jon had no idea what she covered. Had Gertrude told Sasha this the first time around? Had Sasha known something important and never shared it, dying before she found the opportunity to share her information? In fact, Jon had no idea how close Sasha had been to Gertrude. He was surprised to hear that they even interacted in the first place.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind hearing it anyway,” Jon said, trying to keep a tone of panicked urgency out of his voice.

“No, no, it’s nothing,” she insisted, waving her hand in dismissal. “I’m going to head home now, anyway. Have a good afternoon!”

Sasha hurried out of the Archive, snatching her bag up from in front of her office door and all-but slamming the door behind her. Jon watched her leave, rooted to the spot. He  _ needed _ to know what Sasha knew about the Institute. Having her information was a matter of life or death for everyone in the Archive–if not the entire Institute, he told himself. But he couldn’t Know something in the middle of The Archive. Jonah would be alerted immediately. In addition, Jon was still not entirely sure if he’d be able to do so successfully anyway. Clenching his jaw in frustration, he exited The Archive, stopping beside Martin who was standing right outside the door. 

“What happened in there?” He asked, craning his neck to see Sasha hurrying down the hallway. “Is everything okay with you two? Did you reveal anything?”

“No, but something even stranger has happened.” Jon ran a weary hand through his hair. “We can’t talk here. Let’s go get some coffee.”

* * *

Jon sat across from Martin, his forearms rested on the slightly sticky, circular table. His hands were wrapped around a warm ceramic mug, but he was yet to take a sip of the coffee. 

“Okay, now you need to explain,” Martin said between bites of his pastry. “What could possibly be weirder than what’s already happened?”

“It’s not particularly  _ weird  _ exactly, but it’s definitely important.” Jon raised his hand to his shoulder, pressing on a knot of stress. “Gertrude told Sasha something about the Institute. I think Sasha knows more than we thought she did.”

“What did Gertrude tell her?” Martin’s eyes grew in surprise, his pastry falling from his fingers and on to the plate. “Does she know about the entities? Or Jonah? Or her role as the Archivist?”

“She wouldn’t tell me! She claimed that she was just ‘overthinking things’!” 

“So it can’t be anything too revealing, or else she wouldn’t be able to brush it off so easily,” Martin offered. 

“I suppose, though she could have found whatever Gertrude told her so absurd that she genuinely thought it was just the rambling of a senile old woman.”

“But she doesn’t think that Gertrude was crazy. She said so herself!”

“I just don’t know what she knows, Martin!” Joan moaned, throwing his head back in resignation. “I don’t know what she knows and I can’t Know it myself without being discovered! I just don’t know what to do.”

“As much as I hate to say this, Jon,” Martin sighed, “we may just have to wait it out until something properly supernatural happens. Then everything can spill out.”

“But what if they get hurt when that does happen?”

“We need to make sure that isn’t the case.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a while to write, sorry about that y'all!! I've fallen down a mechs hole so I've been juggling writing this with writing some mechs stuff as well. Anyway, things are starting to pick up! But really, the more I listen to season 5, the more I realize that things that I just assumed are incorrect. My Canon Now!
> 
> There's a lot happening out there right now, guys, so stay safe but also stay active and aware!

**Author's Note:**

> and off they go! I'll update this as soon as I can, which will probably be sooner rather than later given our current.....quarantine situation.


End file.
